


a gesture for recovery

by hawberries



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-26
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 16:40:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/981213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawberries/pseuds/hawberries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baisemain: a kiss on the hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a gesture for recovery

**Author's Note:**

> prompt from an anon for [this meme](http://sapphicdalliances.tumblr.com/post/62154651976). you can leave your own if you like!

“You didn’t have to do that,” says Enjolras quietly, holding a packet of frozen dumplings to Grantaire’s face.

Grantaire shrugs, his eyes closed. “The guy at the gym told me not to show up drunk, so I haven’t gone boxing in weeks. That guy pretty much did me a favour by giving me an excuse to punch him.”

“Still.” _You didn’t have to take a beating for defending something you don’t even believe in_ , Enjolras wants to say; _you don’t care about improving systematic inequality enough to make it worth your while to step between me and the seven-foot racist I tried to take on._ Somehow, the very thought seems to do Grantaire a disservice; if nothing else, the man is unendingly loyal, after all. “Well, in any case, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” says Grantaire, a tiny grin on his lips. Then, “Hey, sorry for melting your dumplings.”

That makes Enjolras snort. “I’m sure I’ll survive.”

“Well, making a guy go without frozen dumplings has never been on my to-do list ever. Nobody deserves that, those fuckers are delicious.”

“I could just cook them after this and thank you for helping me defrost them.”

“Yeah, but the instructions on the back tell you to boil them from frozen, so…”

“Grantaire,” says Enjolras, his grip tensing on the makeshift ice-pack, “stop worrying about the dumplings.”

It comes out much sharper than he had intended, and Grantaire finally cracks open one vivid green eye and squints at him, his head still leaned against the back of Enjolras’s couch.

“What’s up with you?” he says, and his clever mouth quirks down. The sight of it—the poorly-concealed hurt on Grantaire’s face—makes Enjolras want to punch something, preferably himself, in the face. He forces himself to be calm, trying to not let his concern manifest as accusation as it usually does.

“That guy was three times your size, Grantaire,” he bites out. “You—shouldn’t have had to throw yourself into a situation like that.”

“Dude,” says Grantaire, his face smoothing out; his eyes are closed again. “Let’s not overstate the situation here. I mean, he had…like, less than a metre on me, that’s almost nothing, come on. And he’s at least four times the size of you, you fucking—fettucini noodle person—“

Enjolras sits up, mock-affronted, feeling himself grin. “You don’t have the right to make fun of my body shape, _Big R_ , you need help reaching tall shelves at supermarkets—“

“Why you—! Sir, that is below the belt, how could you say such things to the man who just saved your life—”

At that, Enjolras quickly sobers again. “About that,” he begins, but Grantaire waves a hand in his face to cut him off.

“Don’t start again, I got involved because I wanted to and I’m glad you’re not hurt, the end. Now, put some band-aids on these for me and we’ll call it even, all right?”

His hands are rather badly scuffed; the knuckles of his left hand are bleeding. Enjolras hands over the swiftly-softening ice-pack and begins rooting through his first-aid kit, emerging with a bottle of iodine, some cotton swabs, and a collection of plasters.

He lays the scraped hand in his lap and dabs at the wounds gently with the iodine. Grantaire flinches, then stills.

“Sorry,” Enjolras murmurs.

“Can’t be helped,” says Grantaire on a slow exhale. “I just always hated this part.”

“Sorry,” says Enjolras again, not knowing what else to do and hating it. “I—it’s my fault you—what can I do to help?”

“First of all, stop trying to take responsibility for my actions, I thought you were all about autonomy and agency and self-possession and all that,” says Grantaire, opening both eyes and fixing him with a look that looked like a smirk but couldn’t quite qualify as one. “Second of all, you are literally tending to my wounds like a grateful maiden in a fairytale right now, so anything else could probably be considered superfluous, but—“

“Grantaire—“

“You could always kiss it better.”

Enjolras prepares to retort with something wry or sarcastic; but he looks at Grantaire, limp against the back of his couch, a packet of dumplings on his face, the skin around his eyes crinkled slightly with exaustion and good humour, and the words fade. Instead, he lifts Grantaire’s hand, bows his head, and gently presses his lips against the scuffed knuckles. The skin is hot, slightly inflamed; the raised scratches are rough against his mouth.

When he looks back up, Grantaire is gazing at him with his eyes wide and over-bright, his jaw slack. Enjolras considers regretting his actions, but Grantaire’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, and Enjolras loses his train of thought.

“What,” croaks out Grantaire.

“I was kissing it better,” says Enjolras, with a brave stab at levity. His face feels very flushed; heat crawls up the back of his neck.

“Right,” says Grantaire shakily. “I—thank you, it’s working great, I feel better already.”

Enjolras nods, carefully peeling two plasters and smoothing them over the cleaned scratches on Grantaire’s hand. He risks a glance up, meets Grantaire’s gaze, and thinks: _fuck it_.

He leans over and carefully kisses Grantaire’s temple, where the ice-pack had been; the bridge of Grantaire’s crooked and rapidly-purpling nose; the corner of his mouth, where there is a tiny cut. Grantaire’s eyes stay on his the whole time; he seems unable to look away.

“Kissing it better,” breathes Enjolras, after a few seconds of silence. His breath puffs against Grantaire’s chin.

“Right,” says Grantaire feebly, not moving or blinking. Enjolras darts his gaze down for just a moment, then moves forward one more time to press his lips chastely against Grantaire’s.

“What were you kissing better that time?” he murmurs when Enjolras draws back.

“Nothing,” replies Enjolras. “That one was just because I wanted to.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Grantaire stays silent, his irises flicking minutely from side to side, tracking Enjolras’s eyes. “Do you still want to?” he asks after a moment.

Enjolras grins, and leans in again.

The dumplings get thrown out.


End file.
